Dead Joker

by Anne Holt

  Eivind Torsvik rarely thought about the years he had spent in jail. Not that it was particularly painful to look back to his time behind bars. In the course of the four years he did for the homicide he had committed on his eighteenth birthday, he learned everything he needed to live a good life. As well as writing, he learned about computing. The warders never caused trouble for Eivind Torsvik; they treated him with respect and sometimes even with something approaching kindness. The other prisoners mostly left him in peace. They called him “Angel Boy”. Although the name was probably meant as a jibe at his fair curls and eternal, impenetrable smile, he never felt insulted. Angel Boy was okay. Since he had been jailed for murder, even newcomers let Angel Boy live his life without too much interference. After a couple of months, no one commented on his missing ears.

  When he now, for the first time in ages, cast his mind back to the cell where he had lived for four years, it was because he was going to type his final period. He closed his eyes and took stock. Five days before he was due to be released, he had experienced for the very first time the joy of declaring a manuscript finished. Since he had not had access to red wine in prison, he had bought a bottle of sparkling apple juice some time in advance. A warder had smiled at his request but had provided a fancy stemmed glass all the same. When Eivind Torsvik had toasted himself and his very first novel, he had felt the tingle of carbon dioxide on the roof of his mouth as the closest he had ever come to a genuine sexual experience.

  He took a gulp of the wine. It was warm inside the cottage: cozy, almost hot. Eivind Torsvik sat in T-shirt and jeans, and as he finally swallowed the red wine, he let his finger touch the period key.

  If he was not exactly looking forward to the next four months, he nevertheless felt a profound satisfaction at the thought of setting to work on something different.

  16

  Hanne Wilhelmsen had no desire to sleep. She blinked her eyes, shook her head roughly and tried her best to stay awake. There had been food on the table, again, when she arrived home. Cecilie had lit candles, again, and put on exquisite music that had filled the living room with something demanding attention. And for the umpteenth evening, week, perhaps month in a row, Hanne was suffused with something that most resembled irritation. Obviously it was her conscience. She caught hold of that, hugging the feeling of inadequacy to herself and attempting to force it to keep her eyes open.

  “I’m giving in,” she said at last. “Sorry, Cecilie, but I simply must sleep. I’m on the point of collapse, I—”

  The music stopped. The silence was so overpowering that it made Hanne weigh up whether she might manage another half hour or so. For the sake of peace in the household. For Cecilie’s sake.

  “I’m going to bed,” she said softly. “Thanks for dinner. It was really delicious.”

  Cecilie Vibe said nothing. She sat with her fork raised in front of her mouth. A tiny piece of fish was about to break off, and she stared at it until it finally dropped into the lemon sauce that had partially, quite unappetizingly, congealed on her plate. When she heard Hanne close the bedroom door behind her, she could not even muster the strength to cry.

  Instead, she sat up all night reading a book.

  It was Sunday March 7. The pearly dawn light crept into the apartment. In the end, Cecilie fell asleep in her chair. When Hanne rose around eight o’clock, she spread a blanket over her partner without waking her, forgot about breakfast, and disappeared.

  17

  Preben Halvorsrud was too young to understand his own sorrow and bewilderment. His face was marked with defiance and denial. The acne around the bridge of his nose was fiery red, and his eyelashes – long and curling like a girl’s – had become matted with snot and tears. His mouth was set in an unsympathetic grimace, its corners moist with spittle he did not dare to lick dry. The boy had hardly glanced at Billy T. when the policeman had taken him to his aunt’s house. And they had barely exchanged a look since.

  “Great that you can stay at your aunt’s house, don’t you think?”

  Billy T. was about to give up. He could not bear interviewing youngsters. Youngsters did not belong in a police headquarters. Anyone under twenty was a youngster as far as Billy T. was concerned. He had driven and wrecked a stolen car himself when he was nineteen. His gratitude to his pal’s father was boundless. He’d made the culprits paint the house as their punishment. The police never got to hear about the incident. When, three years later, Billy T. had applied to police college, he was able to slap the mandatory spotless record down on the table. The episode had taught him two things: firstly, that there were no limits to the idiocies teenagers could devise. Secondly, that most things could be forgiven.

  Preben Halvorsrud was nineteen and hadn’t even stolen a bottle of cola. He had not done anything whatsoever. Nevertheless, he was sitting in an uncomfortable office in the police headquarters biting his fingers to the quick because he had no nails left to nibble. He twisted in his seat and spread his legs with no inkling that this made him appear childish rather than manly.

  “When do I get to see my dad, then?”

  He was speaking to his own trouser leg.

  “Not easy to say,” Billy T. replied. “When we’ve managed to get our heads slightly higher above water and can work out what actually happened.”

  As he spoke, he realized how absurd his answer was. It did not tell the boy anything at all. Preben Halvorsrud wanted to see his father now. Straight away.

  “Soon,” Billy T. corrected himself. “As soon as possible.”

  He had used up all his questions. Treading warily, he had tried to discover what the boy knew about his parents’ relationship. Preben had answered for the most part in monosyllables. However, the boy displayed a sulky, reluctant concern for his siblings. He was especially anxious about his sixteen-year-old sister.

  “When’s the funeral?” he said all of a sudden, staring out the window.

  Billy T. did not respond. He did not know. It was only three days since Preben Halvorsrud’s mother had been beheaded. So far, Billy T. and the rest of the eleven police investigators working on the case had concentrated on gathering all the threads into a single weave that, at the end of the day, would show them who had murdered Doris Flo Halvorsrud. But of course the lady had to be buried. For one ludicrous moment Billy T. envisaged two separate coffins: a large one for her body and a small, pretty one for her head. He suppressed an extremely inappropriate smile.

  “Can Dad go?”

  The boy looked at him for a brief instant. He was the spitting image of his mother, despite his late, ongoing puberty and being saddled with an overlarge nose and a complexion that must cause him serious problems with girls.

  “Go from here? No. He has to stay here for a while. As I said, it—”

  “I didn’t mean from here. I realize that’s not on. I meant to the funeral. My mother’s funeral. Can Dad go to that?”

  Rubbing his face, Billy T. sniffed long and hard. “I’m really not sure about that, Preben. I’ll do my best.”

  “It would be good for my sister, you see. She’s … a daddy’s girl, you might say.”

  “And what about you, then?” Billy T. asked. “How do you feel about it?”

  The boy shrugged. “Nah—”

  “Do you think it’s important for your father? To go to the funeral, I mean?”

  Preben Halvorsrud made a face that was impossible to interpret. Maybe he was just exhausted. “Mmm.” He nodded gently.

  “Why?”

  “They really loved each other, you know!”

  For the first time, fury broke through his unsympathetic defiance. The nineteen-year-old straightened up in his chair and took his hand away from his mouth.

  “My parents have been married for over twenty years. Of course, I understand that things haven’t been fucking easy all the time. I don’t think it is for anybody. You, for example …” A grubby, blood-tipped finger pointed at Billy T. “Are you married?”

  “No,” Billy T. sai
d. “But I’m getting married this summer.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Four. Soon five.”

  “Wow,” Preben Halvorsrud exclaimed, withdrawing his finger. “With the same woman?”

  “No. But it’s not me we’re talking about right now.” Billy T. banged a desk drawer with unnecessary force.

  “Yes,” Preben said. “It is you we’re talking about. If your children have different mothers, then you do know what I’m talking about. Things aren’t that fucking easy all the time. You haven’t made such a good job of it yourself, have you? Staying with one person the whole time, I mean. If the mother of one of your children died, it would be important for you to go to her funeral, wouldn’t it? Don’t you think?”

  The pitch of his voice rose to a falsetto, as if he was actually only fifteen. That was the age he looked as well. His eyes were about to spill over into tears. The fragile shield of indifference was about to shatter. Billy T. sighed loudly as he got to his feet. The feeling of being a scumbag almost paralyzed him as he towered over the boy. Preben Halvorsrud crumpled beneath him.

  “So they did have problems, then.”

  The boy nodded imperceptibly.

  “In what way?”

  Preben sniffed noisily and used the back of his hand to rub his eyes. Then he lifted his chin and made eye contact with Billy T.. The tears, hanging heavily on his eyelashes, threatening to fall at any second, glittered in the pale gray daylight.

  “What do you really know about your own parents?” he said softly. “About that kind of thing, I mean.”

  Billy T. shuddered. Without thinking about it, he stroked Preben’s hair. The youth stiffened at his touch, but did not pull away.

  “You’re right,” Billy T. said. “We don’t actually know much. I’ll drive you home. To your aunt’s house, I mean. But before we go, I’d like to know about—”

  Billy T. opened a desk drawer and removed a large black flashlight wrapped inside a transparent plastic bag.

  “Do you recognize this? Does it belong to you, perhaps?”

  Preben reached out his hand to take the torch, but changed his mind.

  “It belongs to Marius. At least he has one like that. Identical, I’d say.”

  “That’s fine,” Billy T. said with a smile, replacing the flashlight in the drawer. “Now let’s go.”

  Outside the police headquarters, as they made their way through the drizzle to the car, Preben Halvorsrud halted.

  “Do you have to talk to Thea and Marius as well?”

  Billy T. gave a quick, slight shrug, then slapped the young man on the shoulder. He was thinner than his baggy clothes made him appear.

  “No,” he said finally. “I promise I won’t bother your brother and sister.”

  “Good,” Preben Halvorsrud answered. “Thea should be left in peace.”

  His smile, the first Billy T. had seen, made the nineteen-year-old seem five years younger again. His lank, fashionably cut hair fell across his forehead, and Billy T. hoped he hadn’t made a promise that might prove impossible to keep.

  18

  Police Chief Hans Christian Mykland of Oslo Police District had been in post for exactly two years, two months, two weeks and two days. These four totals had greeted him from the fridge door that morning. They were written elegantly in felt pen on an A4 sheet held in place by two magnets: a pig dressed as a clown and a miniature version of the astronomical clock in the Old Town Square in Prague. Though Mykland had been visibly annoyed, he’d left the sheet where it was. He had never told his employers in the Justice Department about the agreement he had entered into with his family when he had applied for the job as head honcho of the Oslo police force.

  Three years, max.

  His sons, at that time twelve and fifteen, had wholeheartedly supported their mother. To cap it all, the youngest had produced a kind of contract for his father to sign before he had been allowed to accept the post. He had obeyed the boy because the twelve-year-old had for a split second become his eldest brother, Mykland’s eldest son. Simen had been only twenty when he had taken his own life. Alone at their summer cottage, he had inflicted eleven brutal wounds on himself with a rusty old sheath knife. The doctor had looked away when Mykland had asked him how long it had taken for his son to die.

  Shortly after Hans Christian Mykland was appointed Chief of Police, on April 4, 1997 the then Prime Minister, Birgitte Volter, had been found dead in her office. Shot in the head. The case had caused a stir throughout the western world, and Hans Christian Mykland subsequently proved to his family what they had suspected all along, that the job of Police Chief was no nine to five existence.

  He enjoyed it, though.

  Admittedly, he sometimes felt like Sisyphus. Crime in Oslo could not be staunched. The police force was awarded more and more resources, but it was never enough. The police district was reorganized and made more efficient, but criminality was like a malignant tumor that could only be slowed, not wiped out.

  All the same, it was worth it.

  Norway was still a law-abiding country. Its citizens – even in the capital – could still feel reasonably safe. At least if they knew which areas to avoid, and at which times of day they should stay at home.

  Hans Christian Mykland was becoming popular. It was true that the start had been rather hesitant. Making the transition from the administrative position as Head of CID to the more general and far more outgoing business of being Police Chief had not been easy. But he’d got used to it. Slowly but surely. Now there were daily signs that the staff not only respected him but were also beginning to value him as a human being as well as a boss. The Police Chief thanked God for that every single night before he fell asleep.

  The job was more satisfying than he had imagined. He liked the work. He loved the contact with the general public. He enjoyed the approbation of his subordinates. Hans Christian Mykland was on top of his brief and had absolutely no desire to call it a day. All the same, he had barely ten months left. A promise was a promise, even if he had been heavily pressurized into making it.

  If Hanne Wilhelmsen had known how the Police Chief’s morning had started, she would possibly have understood the man’s ill humor. She could not fathom the reason for his long face and curt, barked responses.

  “Why on earth wasn’t this case submitted on Friday?” Police Chief Mykland scratched his blue-black stubble in irritation as he stared at the Chief Inspector.

  “We just didn’t have the chance to gather—” Hanne Wilhelmsen began.

  “Saturday then? We always do custody hearings on Saturdays if necessary!”

  Shaking his head, the Police Chief gave a sudden smile.

  “Sorry, Hanne,” he said in a completely different tone of voice. “I’ve had a bad morning. My family isn’t too happy about me working on a Sunday. But I …” He clawed at his neck before tugging distractedly at the collar of his uniform shirt. “Three and a half days without a court order …”

  He left that hanging. Hanne Wilhelmsen was well aware that whichever police prosecutor turned up at the District Court tomorrow could expect criticism from the judge. The court had to sanction holding Sigurd Halvorsrud behind bars. Going by the book, that should have been done within twenty-four hours of his arrest. It was one thing that far too much time had elapsed. Even worse was that the documents would clearly state that as early as Friday, Chief Public Prosecutor Halvorsrud had agreed to being kept in custody for a fortnight. The police could have brought the case then.

  However, Hanne Wilhelmsen had been hoping for more than two weeks. She could not stand working to short deadlines. As a rule it led to everyone becoming unnecessarily stressed, and stress spoiled their work. People became sloppy. The investigation suffered. Nonetheless, Hanne Wilhelmsen could appreciate to some degree why the defense lawyers made such a fuss about the need to impose strict time limits on the police in order to increase efficiency and decrease custody times; she never took it personally. When she was in charge o
f an investigation, she made sure the custody period was used for its true purpose.

  “We’ll have to put up with the criticism,” she said, twisting her head from side to side. “Anyway, they won’t set him free. We’ve got more than enough on him.”

  Tilting his head to one side, the Police Chief stared at her. A frown appeared above the bridge of his nose. He picked up a pewter paper knife and sat fiddling with the cold metal.

  “If I knew you better, I’d invite you to dinner,” he said so unexpectedly that Hanne Wilhelmsen did not quite know where to look. “But I’ll have to leave it. How do you feel about it?”

  “Feel? Well … it might be nice.”

  The Police Chief laughed loudly.

  “I didn’t mean dinner. The case! What do you think? Did he do it?”

  Hanne felt a tingling sensation behind one temple. She tried to conceal the rapid breathing caused by her embarrassment, and launched into the report she had come to deliver.

  “There are eleven of us working on the case. Plus technicians, of course. So far, the witness statements from neighbors haven’t got us anywhere. They’re all shocked and upset and so on. Nobody can think who might have any interest in seeing Mrs. Halvorsrud dead. Door-to-door enquiries told us nothing. No one saw anything, no one heard anything. In total we’ve held twenty-six interviews, including a fairly short one with Halvorsrud’s eldest son. Didn’t get anywhere much with that either. Other than that he seems to have realized that things weren’t entirely rosy between his parents.”

  She stopped. Cecilie. Hanne had forgotten to phone. She glanced at her wristwatch and swore inwardly.

  “What we have is quite ample, as far as it goes. The man’s fingerprints on the weapon. No one else’s, in fact, not even the prints of one of the itchy-fingered youngsters. No one can tell me that the sword has hung on the wall for years without one of the children touching it.”

  “Which might mean that the sword was wiped clean before Halvorsrud touched it,” the Police Chief said, indicating for Hanne to continue.